


Where We Are Now

by MrsCaulfield



Series: Collection of stories [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Post Apocalypse, crowley is a scarf because he doesnt know how to ask for cuddles, just some sickly sweet fun cause it's what they deserve, spot the minor doctor who reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24980662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: Crowley has always had trouble asking for the things he wants. Luckily, Aziraphale is usually very good at figuring them out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Collection of stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780507
Comments: 7
Kudos: 131





	Where We Are Now

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? A oneshot written by me that isn't angsty or dramatic for once??

*

“Here you are, Mr. Fell! And can I just say, you’re looking swell this morning.”

There are many fundamental laws governing the Earth. As an angel who has been around since the dawn of Genesis itself, Aziraphale knows these very well.

Gravity—the fact that all objects are destined to be attracted to the Earth’s core.

Magnetism—how all compasses point towards the same spot no matter where you are on the Earth’s surface (accounting for the effects of magnetic declination, of course).

Light—how it travels at a constant speed in vacuum, and is at most only mildly bothered anywhere else.

But there are other laws that are hardly as appreciated by mankind. One of them Aziraphale simply likes to call the _Law of Inspection_. It states that things on Earth are often not at all what they seem from afar, but then again, we rarely take a good enough look.

“Why thank you, Andrea. Hope you have a lovely da—oh no, my dear, do keep the change! I assure you it’s no problem.

Aziraphale takes the bag of pastries in his hands, beaming at the young girl he always meets over at the register of his favoured cafe.

“It’s nice to see you changing it up a bit,” she tells him.

Nice girl, she really is. One of many recipients of Aziraphale’s minor _(ehem, frivolous)_ miracles since the world didn’t end. The life of a retired angel of the Heavenly forces. He has, perhaps, gone a bit native.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your look. I’ve never seen you before without that bowtie you always wear. And that’s a lovely scarf. Looks good on you.”

As you and even I are likely to do, Aziraphale instinctively places a hand to his neck and glances down at it, because he has forgotten what it was he chose to wear that morning.

If he wasn’t sure before, this was the definite proof that he _has_ gone native.

Aziraphale lets out a soft chuckle which, unbeknownst to him, rings a tiny wave of comfort through all the room’s twelve occupants.

“Thank you, dear. Shall I see you tomorrow again?”

“You know there’s nowhere else to find me,” Andrea replies cheekily. “Have a nice day.”

As Aziraphale exits the store, he braces himself for the rush of cool air that sweeps through him.

Out on the pavement, where the streets of London are so usually crowded with bustling human activity, Aziraphale whispers, “Are you alright?”

A ‘ _perception filter’_ , Crowley had called it. For you see, it’s not that the scarf actually _looks_ like a scarf. In fact, the scarf didn’t bother to disguise itself at all. The Law of Inspection merely states that Andrea didn’t look close enough.

The head of the scarf pops out from where it had been tucked into Aziraphale’s collar to come face to face with him. A forked tongue flickers out to taste the air before deciding that it is much too cold to be hanging outside of its nook, and promptly returns to its previous position.

Aziraphale couldn’t resist a small, close-lipped smile. His scarf is very lovely indeed.

* * *

The thing is that, lingering exhaustion from the Not-Apocalypse has Crowley sleeping more often than usual.

Not that this should’ve taken Aziraphale by surprise, coming from a demon who once slept through most of a century. His snake form must be more comfortable for him to sleep in, for how else could he explain the fact that over the past month Aziraphale has seen him more in all his serpentine glory than in his humanoid one?

Right now, as Crowley quite literally hangs around his neck in the confines of his bookshop, Aziraphale ponders on what it is that he’s missing.

There is always _something_ that he’s missing.

There shouldn’t be, but Aziraphale cannot help but feel it anyway.

He’s currently sat in his comfy armchair, a hundred-year-old book propped on his lap. He stares at the words, which string themselves into sentences, clumping into rich paragraphs, filling pages and pages with a brand of magic so surreal it could only be found on Earth and nowhere else—and yet he feels absolutely dull.

“I am a bit bored,” he says to his book.

His scarf hardly stirs around his neck. Aziraphale heaves a sigh.

They are almost always together now, and for the first time in millennia they are actually allowed to. Isn’t this all he’s ever wanted?

He focuses back on his book. _(Which title did he choose again? Does it even matter?)_

The bookshop is filled by the sounds of a serpent’s soft snores.

* * *

Aziraphale finally gets another glimpse of familiar spiked ginger hair, metal glasses, and gangly limbs one night when he suggests a dinner at the Ritz. That’s when Aziraphale finally realizes that what he’s been missing is Crowley’s conversation. For everything instantly becomes better when he is able to talk to the demon about it. And so he talks and talks and _talks_. Crowley listens and replies over his untouched plate of lobster thermidor, which he later pushes in the angel’s direction once he’d consumed his steak dish. It’s the most fun Aziraphale has had in a month.

Crowley drives them back to the bookshop after that. No use going separate ways when Crowley almost always ends up crashing on Aziraphale’s couch. Aziraphale unlocks the front doors, hangs his coat, and looks back to find Crowley already ambling his way to the sofa, ready to launch himself onto it.

Aziraphale catches him by the sleeve.

“Crowley, dear. Wait.”

Crowley’s brows are drawn, his glasses already vanished into the aether in preparation for his snake transformation. Golden slitted irises look back at him, looking every bit the evil temptation of Eden, yet at the same time radiating an air of _fright._

“What’s wrong, angel?”

He keeps his grip tight on the fabric over Crowley’s wrist, fingers involuntarily flexing to brush over bare skin. It’s cold, but nothing at all like the rushing winds of streets of London. Nothing he has to brace himself for. No surprise. No adjustment. Because Crowley’s always been there and it’s only ever been Crowley.

His voice is hitched with uncertainty. “You and I… we are alright, are we not?”

Crowley nods slowly. “’Course we are. Don’t worry about it. If something ever comes up from our respective head offices, I’ll be sure to sniff—”

“No, not with our former occupations. I mean _you and I_.”

This time, Crowley blinks as slowly as he nodded previously, which isn’t really saying much considering that he doesn’t blink very often.

“Do you… have any reason to think we’re not?”

“I hardly know. Just.” Aziraphale sighs. “I feel as if you have been avoiding me.”

“I can’t even remember when was the last time we were apart, angel,” Crowley answers automatically. He doesn’t withdraw his arm from Aziraphale’s grip, though, and they stay there entwined in both their human forms. “And I like being here. Does it bother you?”

“No! Of course not. I would never want you to think that. You are always welcome here, Crowley.”

The demon shoots him a friendly grin, and oh how Aziraphale missed the sight of his lips stretched out over the handsome set of his sharp jaw. It’s not that he’s any less fond of Crowley’s serpent form, but he’s grown more accustomed to seeing Crowley in his human form—and rarely did he not take the chance to appreciate it, when the opportunity arose.

“M’glad to hear it then," Crowley replies tenderly.

* * *

“I am quite bored.”

It’s a month and a half into this strange new arrangement when Aziraphale figures out why exactly Crowley has preferred to lounge about more often in serpent form as of late.

The book on his lap, again, makes no response. Not even a flutter of its pages in a manner similar to how the leaves of Crowley’s lush plants would shiver at the mere sound of their owner’s approaching footsteps.

His scarf, however, makes a small stir.

This time, he doesn’t let it slide. Aziraphale clears his throat.

“I said, I am quite bored.”

He is greeted by a pair of full-force demon eyes, blearily blinking at him. Even as Crowley is yet to fully comprehend his surroundings, a question is already plastered over his features.

Aziraphale finds it all so endearing.

_‘Well?’_ says the question over Crowley’s features, says it without making a sound.

Aziraphale smiles, leaning in to place a small peck over the serpent’s snout.

A brief moment passes where Aziraphale considers whether he may actually be discorporated from strangulation by the Serpent of Eden, before a flurry of long limbs pop out over his shoulder and Crowley—dressed to the nines as per his usual elegantly dark fashion—drops face first onto the floor.

“Oh, my dear! Are you alright?” Aziraphale holds out a hand towards him.

But Crowley makes no move. His cheek squished against the carpet and his shirt hiked up to his ribs from hanging upside down while his legs shoot straight up over the sofa cushions, he responds to Aziraphale with a mere “ _Nnngggggrhh_.”

“I’m sorry. Did I surprise you?”

Crowley looks almost appalled by the question.

“Surprise me? Oh no. Not at all! Obviously I was not surprised _at all_.”

“There’s really no need for that kind of tone. Contrary to popular belief, some angels _are_ capable of detecting sarcasm.”

Aziraphale swears that, if he could look at Crowley’s face right now, the demon would be rolling his eyes.

“What was that for?” says the demon accusingly.

Aziraphale’s tone falters. “You didn’t like it? I… I’m so sorry.”

Here, Crowley finally hikes himself up into a decent sitting position on the floor, his legs tucked under him. For a moment, Aziraphale fears he has misjudged.

And then, Crowley lets out a beautiful soft laugh that rings through the room.

“Just give me some kind of warning next time, alright?”

The relief that radiates from Aziraphale must be palpable. He runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, revels in the feeling of it. It is the feeling of coming home.

“Of course, dear.”

* * *

Crowley nearly blows his own ‘perception filter’ on one chilly afternoon at St. James’s Park when a lady decked out in a flattering tracksuit and is walking her dog, approaches Aziraphale and evidently does the whole _suggestive arm swat thing_.

Now, Aziraphale couldn’t exactly call himself an expert on flirting, but he’s heard Crowley talk about this one before. _Part of the trade_ , he’d told him. As a demon, he was trained to see signs of interest and to encourage their blossoming into lust.

Aziraphale, ever the pinnacle of angelic ingenuity, laughs kindly and pats her golden retriever on the head. It really is an adorable dog. Briefly he considers getting one of his own, but then again there’s no certainty it would get along with his scarf.

Said scarf, by the way, which has now lunged out of his shirt collar, full snake head jabbing towards the stranger.

The lady startles and jumps back, her heels grinding into cement.

“Aaah! What the hell is that? You shouldn’t be keeping wild animals in here!"

Aziraphale frowns at his scarf, shoving a panicked hand over its head so it can tuck back inside his shirt. Instead, the scarf only releases a loud and defiant hiss.

“A-ah, well, I suppose you are right. I should be running along now—take this wily serpent back home!”

The lady and her dog scamper away from him.

“Crowley, that was very unnecessary! Were you trying to draw attention to yourself?”

The scarf stays still around his neck. He looks around at the throngs of people milling about the grounds, wondering how he must look like to them now.

“Oh, just you wait until we’re back at the bookshop!”

Frankly, it’s a bit of an awkward sight—Aziraphale carefully loosening his scarf, setting it down over his desk, and glaring scoldingly at it, hands at his hips as he waits for it to move. It takes a stern couple of minutes until the scarf jostles on the surface and begins to sprout hair and limbs and fingernails and a set of expensive clothes.

Crowley perches himself on the corner, slouching with his chin propped up by the elbows.

“Would you mind explaining to me what happened back there?”

The demon is avoiding his gaze, bare eyes grimly focused on a random spot beside Aziraphale’s head.

“T'was an oversight,” says the demon, his face inscrutable and unbothered. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

Aziraphale isn’t at all satisfied with that explanation.

“What is the point of you hanging around my neck if you’re just going to reveal yourself? You might as well just walk with me in _this_ body instead if you’re not going to bother with being discreet!”

“I said it won’t happen again, alright!” Crowley snaps, serpent pupils blown wide, drowning out the whites. “Can stop doing it if you’re so upset about it.”

“Stop doing what?”

“That. Being your scarf. I know it’s weird and you probably find it weird. Let’s just stop.”

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale takes one of his hands, urging the demon to look at him. Cold to the touch but warm to everything else. Aziraphale could spend centuries basking in Crowley’s enduring light. He grips Crowley’s hand tightly within his own.

“What?” Crowley asks weakly, suddenly unable to maintain his sharp and biting tone.

“No.”

“No what?”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Aziraphale allows himself a soft giggle, brushing his lips over Crowley’s knuckles. This demon puzzles him to no end, but it’s truly a wonder how Aziraphale always, _always_ finds a way back to understanding him. No words necessary.

“It doesn’t?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, dear. On the contrary, it feels nice. Rather comforting, actually.”

Another slow blink, now accompanied by a slack jaw which struggles to remember how to form words.

“I’m a demon. I’m not _comforting,_ ” he replies disdainfully.

“Not to anyone else I hope.” The words slip out of Aziraphale and he blushes lightly. Another slow blink. Aziraphale trudges on. “Only to me, I dare say.”

Crowley’s lips press into a tight line and he nods.

Aziraphale’s heart soars, staring at him with the full force of his angelic being.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” says Crowley with faked nonchalance, withdrawing his hand and pushing himself off the desk to stand on his humanly legs. “Go read a book or something.”

Aziraphale already saw this coming.

After all, it’s where they’ve been heading to all this time.

* * *

“I’m feeling rather bored,” Aziraphale says to the book on his lap, sighing.

“Then get another book. You’ve read Wilde so many times it’s about to become our side’s version of _Sound of Music_. Change it up, try some _Lord of the Rings_ or something.”

The one who said all this was not the book but Crowley, currently sprawled over half the sofa by Aziraphale’s side. Fully relaxed and content, already halfway to slumber. A picture perfect sight of everything Aziraphale has ever dared himself to hope for in his immortal life.

It’s late at night and Aziraphale doesn’t need to sleep. He slams the book shut and places it over on the coffee table, turning to face his dearest demon.

“Crowley, my dear. I hope you know that if there is anything that you want, you need only ask.”

The demon’s voice is low and grumbling. “Pffff. I don’t want anything.”

“Of course, love.” Aziraphale reaches over to Crowley, tugging his lazily swaying arms and pulling him onto his lap.

Crowley curls himself up, nestles his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“See?” says the demon, letting out a sleepy contented sigh that sends a pleasant shiver down Aziraphale's spine. “M’perfectly fine.”

Aziraphale, who couldn’t be bothered to get up and had miracled a copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ into his hand, looked away from the book and leaned down to press a lingering kiss over the coiled snake by Crowley’s ear.

“Yes, dearest, so am I.”

“Love you,” Crowley mumbles into his shirt collar, the words murmured into the fabric, stitched into every fibre of Aziraphale’s being, and it is in this moment that another fundamental Law of the Earth is born.

“I love you too, my dearest.”

From then on, Crowley never needed to seek an excuse to cuddle with Aziraphale again.  
  
  
*

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter! @aziraphaleann
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated :)


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